


seven thousand eight hundred and twenty-one kilometres to go

by whisperedkisses



Series: mikado nights [4]
Category: World Trigger (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Last of Us (Video Games) Setting, Character(s) with Hearing Loss, F/M, Multi, Reader-Insert, TW for blood, road trip trope, tw for canada lol, tw for semi-graphic violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:34:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28017816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whisperedkisses/pseuds/whisperedkisses
Summary: you want to get to new brunswick. he wants to get to new brunswick. seems like a simple solution to team up, right?unfortunately for azuma, you don't take kindly to strangers.but there's the promise of a car. . .
Relationships: Azuma Haruaki/Reader
Series: mikado nights [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1916584
Kudos: 5





	seven thousand eight hundred and twenty-one kilometres to go

**Author's Note:**

> characters with underlined dialogue are meant to be understood as speaking in french. my original plan of just writing all the dialogue in french seemed too inaccessible since i'm writing for an anglo audience so i went another route.
> 
> anyway, this is just self-indulgent garbage. i put a lot of love into this, but it's probably not gonna appeal to a lot of people. but if you happen to be a canadian woman who suffers partial hearing loss, this is right up your alley.

There’s a man in the hotel.

You can hear him just outside the backroom you've annexed, the one marked 'Staff' with the most comfortable couch you've found in months, and you leap off of it with a scowl. There's no time to cross the room and get your Mosin-Nagant, so you crawl onto the counter next to the doorway and wait, fingers grazing the handle of the machete strapped to your thigh. The man’s footsteps are muffled by the dingy, ancient carpet, but you can still hear them coming closer, hear them stop in the entranceway. And when the door creaks open and he steps inside, you don't wait for him to notice you before you attack. 

Fast as you can you jump down, kicking him in the shoulder with the full force of your body weight. He hits the ground hard and his gun clatters into the hall as you land on your side with a wince. You only let it hurt for a second, though, before you’re up again, scrambling on all fours towards him and hastily pinning his torso beneath your legs.

"Who the fuck’re you?" You growl, reaching for your machete as he struggles beneath you. You knock his pistol out of reach just as his fingertips manage to graze the handle. 

"Wait—" He tries to push you off but you just shift upwards, trapping his chest under your knees and pressing the blade vertical to his throat. His teeth clench audibly when you push down on his newly-injured shoulder.

"Answer the question before I kill you!" You bark, grinding your knee down harder. The dark-haired man winces and slowly drops his hands, letting them fall beside his head. "Who're you and where the _fuck_ did you come from?"

"Azuma,” He croaks, and even though he complies he still struggles against you. His voice is deep, almost smooth. There’s divots beneath his eyes that make him look like he hasn’t slept in months. "I, _ugh_ — I just got out of Washington state—"

"You came from Washington? You a fuckin’ Wolf!?" You snarl, almost spitting in fury.

"I'm not a Wolf!" He shouts loud enough to almost startle you away, but you hold fast to the machete and press it closer to the curve of his throat. 

"Firefly, then?" 

"No, I'm not. Get off!" He demands, but his hands don’t move, and he’s not doing anything to force you off either.

"Not until you tell me why you're here!" You dip the edge against his skin just enough for a few drops of blood to bead out; a sharp warning in red. “Now, or you’re fuckin’ dead!”

"Alright!" His head falls back against the floor with a dull thud, and his struggling stops entirely. "I'm heading to New Brunswick. I came up from Oregon. I'm _not_ a Wolf, I'm _not_ a Firefly, and I'm not here to hurt you, so please just _get_. _Off_." 

You eye him for another long moment before climbing off. Slowly you back away a few steps, still holding the machete out as a warning, and glance to the side at your backpack, with your Mosin-Nagant snug in its holster. It'd only take two seconds to spring forward and grab it, but it'd take another two to shoot, and aiming at close range with a sniper rifle is risky at best. He'd have you taken down before you even touched the bolt. 

The man gets to his feet slowly, like he's trying to pacify a wild animal, and with the way you’re panting and snarling you might as well be. He doesn’t go for his pistol, or any weapon for that matter. Maybe he was serious about not being here to kill you. “I told you who I am. Who the hell are you?” He moves a hand to his shoulder and winces in pain. 

“How do I know you’re not lying about who you are?” Your grip on the blade handle tightens. It shines dully in the dim overhead light of the room, generator in the corner working overtime to keep the two of you somewhat visible. Every shadow is deeply pronounced, every highlight washed out beneath what could very well be the world's last fluorescent bulb. The room looks like a horror movie in real time. 

“I can prove it.” He keeps his hand pressed to his shoulder as the other comes up to dig into his shirt, pulling out a sickeningly familiar-looking set of dog tags. “I’m with Border.”

Your stomach drops. “What?”

“I’m with Border,” He repeats, and cautiously you move closer to inspect it yourself. 

“Jesus Christ.” Sure enough, there’s the Border inscription in bold letters alongside his name and blood type. Suspiciously, the spot where his home base should be written is scratched out, but it’s not your job to care about that right now.

“Who are you, then?” He demands, taking advantage of your surprise to fist a hand in the front of your sweater. "Why do you care who I'm with?" He looks ready to throw you to the ground, but stops short when his fingers catch in the chain beneath the fabric. You bat his hand away and step back, fixing him with a cold glare as you lift the thing off your head and toss it to him. He stares wide-eyed at the tags in his hand. “You’re—?”

“Yeah. I’m with Border too.” 

“[L/N]. . .” He eyes you in disbelief. “Wait, this says you're from the home branch. What are you doing in Kelowna?” You snatch the tags out of his hand and pull them back over your head, stuffing them beneath your shirt and sweater. 

“That’s a me-problem, not a you-problem.” You keep your eyes on him as you circle behind and pick up your backpack. Slowly you ease it onto your shoulders, but you don't dare reach for the gun just in case he decides to reach for his too. "Sorry for jumping you, have a nice day." You step backwards into the hallway. 

“No, wait. This tag was issued in the Grand Manaan base, wasn’t it?” 

You stop. “. . .yeah.” 

“That’s where I’m heading.”

“O. . .kay?”

“You’re going there too, aren’t you?” You say nothing and purse your lips, unimpressed with the direction this encounter is going. “We’re both in Border, and we’re heading towards the same place.” 

“I'm not gonna team up with you, so don’t even ask.” 

“There’s safety in numbers.” He’s not even fazed by your reaction.

"Listen, bud, I just tried to kill you. I won't hesitate to do it again.” 

“I would’ve done the same thing in that situation.” He offers you his hand with a stupidly serious expression. “Let's help each other. I’ll watch your back and you can watch mine. At least until we can get to the base in Medicine Hat.” 

“There’s still Border people out there?” You ignore the hand and opt to cross your arms over your chest. 

He nods. “I have. . . _friends_ in that outpost. If we can get there, they might be able to give me a car." The angry retort you were about to give him dies on your lips. 

It's tempting. Oh, it's _so_ tempting, and you've been travelling so long on foot that you'd kill to get in a car, even if it only took you one kilometre before crapping out. But not with a stranger; not with this man, who is unreadable in his intentions and— and frankly, too. . . too _something_. “I already said—“ Suddenly his brow furrows. He holds up a hand to silence you, and you might’ve been pissed about it had he not pressed a finger to his lips in a frantic hush.

You notice the shuffling, then. A nearing chorus of gurgling shrieks. The scattering of broken glass. 

The sounds make you both freeze. Immediately your hand is at your rifle, and you're so, _so_ glad to find it's already loaded, because the click of the bolt would just attract even more attention. 

"Infected," He whispers, picking up his pistol as quietly as possible. "Is there a back exit?" 

You nod and start moving backwards, raising the barrel as you go. You can hardly make out anything around the darkened front door. The barricades you found against the entranceway clearly weren't enough to keep the infected from getting inside, just to block out the light of the waning sun. All they've done is make it harder for you to gauge just how much danger you're in. 

There's another shrieking sound as you tiptoe across the carpet. The walls almost feel like they're closing in on you, even in such a large room, and the wallpaper pattern looks like it’s shifting before your very eyes in the dimness. Azuma looks at you for direction, and you jerk your head towards the grand staircase. “Behind there.”

You ease towards it with your finger on the trigger, and your blood runs cold when you hear a screech of recognition, a rallying cry— you’ve been spotted. There's no time to look, but there's definitely more of them than you thought, at least ten- no, fifteen runners from the sound of it. They claw through the remaining barricades like feral animals, and you can't afford to be slow and quiet anymore as you and Azuma break into a sprint. 

"They're coming!" He shouts, firing off a few pot shots as you turn the corner. 

"I know that, jackass!" You dash down the hallway and shove against the fire door as hard as you can with the full force of your body. Your heart almost stops when it doesn't budge an inch. "Fuck! Fuckfuckfuck—“

"Move!" Azuma tries the door. You turn and cap the first runner between the eyes and reload. The late-autumn freeze must have slown them down a bit, but not nearly enough to be of any help to you now. Your fingers shake when you pull back the bolt. The rest of them are rounding the corner. You take down as many as you can, but it's still not enough. More and more are following behind them, enough to make you break out in a cold sweat, and you're halfway to a panic attack when you finally hear the door heave open. "Come on!" Azuma yanks on your bag to walk you backwards as you continue to shoot. 

He forces the door closed as you reload, leaning his body weight into it. Instantly there's pounding on the other side accompanied by the infected's horrible screams, and even though you should be used to it by now, the sound still makes you shudder. There's hardly any sunlight left to see by, but you manage to pull an old metal dumpster in front of the door with a cringing screech of metal. And then you run. 

You run, and run, and run. When you've put enough distance between you and the hotel Azuma calls out for you to slow down. In the rush to get the _fuck_ out of there you hardly even noticed he was still with you, let alone keep track where you've gone. You’re on the outskirts of Kelowna, you guess, and once you’re decidedly outside the city limits you find a small, isolated farmhouse to weather the night. You barricade the doors as Azuma scavenges the kitchen for candles and matches. 

"Okay, what now?"

"What do you mean, 'what now?' You're the one who led ‘em right to me!" You bark, secretly glad to finally have a moment to catch your breath. There’s an unspoken relief that comes with being able to vent your anger on another person, and you take full advantage of it, rounding on the tall man with an accusatory glare.

"What was your plan? How were you going to get to the coast by yourself?"

"On foot, obviously," You huff. "If I had a fuckin’ car, I wouldn't be here with your sorry ass right now." 

“You’ve been travelling on foot? Alone?” You don’t bother dignifying that question with a response, instead claiming a small overstuffed chaise in the living room for yourself and curling up. He stares at you in disbelief just long enough to tick you off. 

“Yeah, alone. ‘Cause I don’t bite off more than I can chew, I don’t make friends, and I _don’t fucking travel at night.”_

“That’s. . .fair.” He sits down on the creaky old couch adjacent to you. You glance at him warily as he sloughs off his backpack and pulls out his hair tie, letting his barely-shoulder-length black hair out of its bun. It’s more of a dark grey than black, actually. The deep troughs beneath his eyes make him look tired but dignified in the dim light of the candles. “Have you made up your mind about coming with me?”

“Don’t have much of a choice, now, do I?” You grumble, laying your head on the puffy arm of the chaise. “As long as you don’t slow me down.” 

“I’ll be a lot more useful once we can find me something scoped.” 

“We?" You can’t help but groan in disbelief. "No, wait. Don’t tell me that pistol's all you have.”

“It is. Lost my rifle on my way out of Washington.”

“No fucking way am I gonna get through this alive,” You laugh humourlessly at the thought.

“It’s not as if there’s many chances for you to snipe at things when you’re on foot.” You bristle at that, the fact he's already deduced what kind of fighter you are, but deep down you know he’s right. Your skills are tailored for patrolling walls or rooftops, not travelling cross-country. “We can alternate, then, if you want. Take turns covering each other at long range.”

“As if I’d trust some stranger to cover for me.” 

“You don’t have to trust me. Just watch my back and I’ll watch yours until we can get to Medicine Hat.” 

You almost scoff at that. “You’re startin’ to get on my nerves, Azuma.” You mumble, letting your eyes close. It’s probably not the best idea to let yourself fall asleep with a stranger, but he hasn’t tried to hurt you yet, and you’re so fucking tired that you don’t even care. You're bitter that you didn't get the chance to sleep on that lovely backroom couch, but your body's so worn out it can't tell the difference between it and this prehistoric chair. 

“You remembered my name.” 

You don’t respond. 

———

You’re the first to wake up the next morning. It’s gotta be around 06:00, you guess, but since your watch battery died weeks ago it’s not like you’ve got a second opinion to check it by. It's cooler than it was yesterday by a longshot, and you have to dig your jacket out of the bottom of your bag to pull on over your sweater. It's still cold, even with the extra layer.

It’s a small victory that this Azuma guy isn’t a snorer, but he’s still completely dead to the world right now, so you take it upon yourself to loot the kitchen for some sort of breakfast. There's an ever-present nagging in the back of your mind to just leave him behind. It'd be so easy to just slip out now while he's still sleeping, but. . .if he died because of you, it'd be even more of a bother. 

Plus there's that promise of a car. And oh, how nice it would be to have one of those. . .

The house has been picked over already by who knows how many people. All that’s left are a few rat-chewed boxes of decades-old pasta and a couple packages of mixed nuts. It’ll have to do, since you don’t have anything else, but nevertheless you find yourself fantasizing about real spaghetti with a childish frown. 

You’re still mentally listing off all the foods you wish you could be eating when you hear the couch creak. “Mmph, good morning.” 

“You finally up?” You glower, doing the utmost to sound more crunchy and dangerous than you usually do. 

“If you wanted to leave earlier, you could’ve woken me up,” He yawns, stretching his arms and swinging his legs over the side of the couch. 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” You grumble, shooting him a withering look. You toss him a package and plop down on the living room rug. But not too close. 

“Thank you.” He tears it open and sits down across from you with a weary smile. “Alright, let’s try to figure this whole thing out. Do you have a map? Mine got left behind somehow.”

You shake your head. “I’ve been following signs for the Trans-Canada.” 

“So you don’t have a map.” 

“No, I don’t.”

He sighs and takes another handful. “Then the first order of business should be finding one.”

“Don’t need it. I know what I’m doing.” 

“. . .how the hell have you survived out here this long?” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Are you seriously implying that you’ve been travelling cross-country on your own without so much as a glance at a map?” 

“Yes.” 

“I. . .I don’t know if I should be impressed or horrified.” 

“Be impressed, then.” You finish the last of your ‘breakfast’ and crumple up the package. “I’ve been doin’ just fine on my own so far.” 

His mouth opens and closes a few times like a goldfish before he actually says anything, and if you weren’t trying so hard to be stoic and impassive you might’ve laughed. “That’s kind of frightening.” 

“You _should_ be afraid of me,” You snort, brushing crumbs off of your pants with a huff. 

“Why’s that?” 

“‘Cause if I feel like it, I can bean you right in the head from eight-hundred metres away.” You stand and tap the spot between your eyes, less of a threat and more of a warning, but he just gives you a strange half-smirk, nothing more than a curl of his lips. It’s not smug. He just looks like he’s trying to analyze you, figure out what the hell’s going on in your head, and you force yourself to turn away. “Finish your food, I want to get goin’.” 

“Alright.” You pick up your backpack and rifle before starting to peel back the chairs and side tables barricading the front door. You can hear Azuma muttering to himself, something like _‘bean me? who the hell says that?’_ As soon as you open it there’s another wave of frigid chill, one that forces your hands into the pockets of your jacket with a sharp hiss. You step onto the porch to wait for your new ‘partner’ in the cold.

It’s not like you _want_ to be an asshole to him. Okay, it’s kind of fun, but that’s not why you force yourself to do it. It’s just so much easier to drift on by in this life with no attachments.

Whoever it was that said that whole thing about ‘better to have loved and lost’ clearly never had to watch anyone get eaten alive. 

“Let’s get moving, it’s fuckin’ cold!” You call, rubbing your hands together to heat them up somewhat. You almost reach for your machete when you feel something touch your shoulder. 

“Do you want gloves?” It’s just Azuma. He’s so tall you have to look up just to glare at him. His hair is tied back again, and he’s wearing a pair of gloves identical to the ones he’s holding out to you. “Here. I always keep spares.” 

You look at them almost hungrily as your fingertips tingle with cold. “Don’t have anything to trade for ‘em.” 

“You don’t need to give me anything,” He says, not quite laughing. “Just take them. I have a toque, too, if you want it.”

Gingerly you accept the gloves and slide them on. They’re warm enough. You wiggle your fingers around and try loading your rifle, just to check how dexterous you are with them on, and in the corner of your eye you can see Azuma looking at you with an amused smile, like he’s watching a child. “No hats. Can’t hear shit when your ears’re covered.”

“What do you do when winter hits?” 

“Tough it out.” He raises an eyebrow. “What? We’re in Canada. Fuckin’ act like it.” You step off the porch and start up the winding laneway at a brisk pace. Azuma catches up easily. His legs are so long you have to take twice as many steps just to keep up, even with your head-start. 

“You’re from Eastern Canada, aren’t you?”

Your eyes widen ever so slightly. “None of your business if I was.” 

“You have the thickest Canadian accent I’ve ever heard.”

“What’s it to you, jackass?”

“It’s not a bad thing. I’m just making conversation.” 

“Liked you better when you were fuckin’ asleep,” You grumble. “I’m not trying to make friends with you, so cut it out.” 

“What’s wrong with being friends?”

“You know what, bud, if you wanna pretend we’re friends now, be my fuckin’ guest,” You stop short and point an accusatory finger at his calm, stupid, _infuriating_ face. “But you’re gonna get no sympathy from me. I don’t hesitate when I put people down.” His eyes are an impassive grey. It’s almost more frustrating that he seems so indifferent than it would be if he took your threat to heart. “You get me?” 

“Roger.” You turn back around and start walking again, all too aware of the crunch of frosty gravel beneath your boots in the sudden silence. Try as you might, you can’t deny that it’s at least somewhat comforting to actually _talk_ again, to speak with another human being and not just to yourself. “So you admit we’re becoming friends?”

“S’not what I said.” 

“Right, we’re ‘pretending’.” 

“If it’ll get you off my back, you can pretend all you fuckin’ want.” You’ve reached the end of the property, now, and you lead him up onto the main drag. The sides of the road are lined with the ancient husks of cars. Most of their hoods are popped open, picked clean for batteries long before you arrived, and the ones that aren’t no doubt have rotted through the engines by now. At least the people here before you had the courtesy to clear a center path in the sea of dead machines. 

“What now, navigator?”

“See that?” You ignore the dumb nickname and point to a faded green sign hanging over the road nearby. “We follow those all the way north through Vernon ‘til we see the highway. Then all we gotta do is head east.” 

“Easy enough, then,” He sighs, rolling his shoulder back with a short hiss. You try your best not to feel bad about injuring him. He deserved it. He deserved it.

He deserved it, but he still sounds hurt. 

“Then get your skinny ass moving.” You snap, trudging on ahead of him. He lets out another low groan and follows. 

You walk in silence for another thirty minutes before he hisses in pain again, and you yank your bag off your shoulders to dig around in the bottom.

“What are you doing?”

“Shut up and take this,” You hand your small, almost-empty bottle of expired painkillers over your shoulder without looking back.

“What are these?”

“What does it look like? You’re so fuckin’ annoying that I have to waste my medicine on you.” 

“Oh.” You hear him fiddle with it for a moment. “Thank you.” When he hands the bottle back your fingers brush, and you let out a short ‘tch’.

“You’re nicer than you look.”

“Shut up.”

The infected are few and far between as you hike up the BC-97. The cold that encroached overnight must be slowing them down. Not a single bullet is spent between the two of you by the time you stop to scavenge some food. 

“Hey.” You haven’t talked for hours now, and your voice sounds almost like a croak. “Look. Gas station.”

“That place will have been emptied by now,” He remarks, putting his hands on his hips. “This is Vernon?”

“Obviously not.” You roll your eyes and motion for him to follow as you hop the banister onto the slope leading down from the road. “You’re gonna stay there while I look for food.” 

“No way you’re going alone—“

“I fucked up your shoulder and you’re useless to me with just a pistol.” You say, turning to watch him descend. His voice was indignant, but his face looks calm as ever, and he doesn’t even have to jump to climb over the metal rail. 

“But how are you going to—“

“I’m a scout,” You say, tone clipped and much less aggressive than earlier. “For Border. And I’m fuckin’ good at it, too. I know what I'm doing” You speed-walk towards the station and he runs to catch up, trying to rationalize about safety in numbers and whatnot, but you cut him off again. “Look, bud, I dunno what you’re gonna say, and I don’t care. Whatever ya think you can help with I can do just as well and twice as fast.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. “How do I know you’re not trying to leave me behind?” 

“Leave you behind. . .?” You hadn’t even thought of that, at least not yet. Maybe you should be, but now that you’ve made up your mind about this, you’re not going back. You can ditch him once you get yourself a car. Until then, though, you have to at least make sure he doesn’t croak. You shake your head to rid yourself of those kinds of thoughts with a deep sigh. “Alright, here’s the scoot. D’you think you can get yourself up the ladder?” 

“That one?” He points towards the rusty thing hanging off the roof of the station. “Yes, I think so.”

“You get up there and wait for me. It’ll take me maybe an hour or two tops to find somethin’ in town.” He stares down at you sternly. You avoid his eyes and pull off your backpack to pass him a tiny handheld radio. “You can hold onto this. For insurance.” 

“Insurance?”

“I’m not goin’ anywhere without that thing. So I’m not gonna ditch you as long as you have it.” 

“Oh,” He murmurs, absentmindedly running a thumb over the surface. You try not to look embarrassed and turn away towards the front door. 

“Doesn’t look like there’s infected inside. Get up there now, I’ll be back soon.” You don’t bother to wait for an answer. You pull out your machete and start jogging towards the ghostly highway town, unaware that Azuma’s eyes trail you until he can’t see you anymore. 

———

Luck is a double edged sword. You should have known that the insignificant number of infected in town would be balanced out by something shitty, but you thought nothing of it. It’s not good to zone out when you’re in infected territory, after all. But now here you are, two hours later, with nothing but a couple bottles of water and an armful of sealed pastries that are probably so stale they’ll break your teeth. 

When you decide to head back, the temperature's dropped even more. It's supposed to be late autumn, probably early November — but you can already see your own breaths as they leave your mouth. Maybe you've lost track of time again. Maybe Azuma knows what day it is. 

You won't ask him, though. Just wait for him to bring it up himself, or rile you up enough to trick you into a conversation again. 

The sky is darkening already when you start across the barren field back to the station. When you're close enough you yell out, just to avoid being shot at if you manage to startle him, and he comes to the edge of the roof, a dark silhouette against the grey sky. 

"I found some stuff," You call, holding up the pastries. "Can you get down?"

"STOP!" He shouts, and you almost shit yourself when he leans over the roof and raises his pistol.

"What the hell are you—“ 

He shoots. Once, twice, three times. You freeze on the spot. All you can think about it how stupid it is to die this way, but death doesn't come. The bullets rip past your head. Subconsciously your hands clap over your ears and you stumble back. It's hard to keep your balance, but you manage, and there's no time to worry about the sudden lack of hearing in your left ear as your foot runs up against something hard.

You turn around. Lying at your feet is the limp, twitching body of an infected stalker, thin and covered in a ghastly amount of cranial fungus. Was it following you all this way? Or was it waiting in the gas station, lurking around ‘til you got close enough to let your guard down? You recoil in horror and reach for your machete but it's already dead, dispatched by three shots to the head, and there's a rush of blood to your own as you realize you've been saved. Mindlessly you teeter back and fall on your ass. 

"Hey," It takes Azuma a few moments to get your attention again. Your hand is still pressed to your ear in shock. “Hey!” Dimly you look upwards. “Can you get up here on your own?”

You swallow thickly and nod. It takes a couple tries to jump high enough to reach the rungs of the ladder, but you manage. As soon as you’re on the roof, Azuma sits you down. You don’t object to his hands on your shoulders, too dazed to even feel the biting cold of the concrete through your jeans. When your gloved hand brushes over your ear again, you can feel it— you can feel it; certainly there’s something touching your ear, rough fabric and a slippery substance that has to be blood, but there’s no sound. Your tongue feels like lead in your mouth. 

“Can you hear me?” Azuma’s voice is muffled by the ringing in your other ear. When you don’t respond he pulls his gloves off by the teeth and tosses them aside. “Can you hear anything at all?” He snaps his fingers next to your head, on the right and then the left. You lift a hand and just point. He seems to get the message. 

“Found food,” Your own voice sounds like it’s coming from a tin can. 

“That doesn’t matter right now.” Azuma gently turns your head to the side by your jaw. His bare fingers feel warm on your wind-chilled skin. Even though he’s speaking right next to your good ear, it sounds like he’s in another room. “That thing must’ve been following you for ages. Shit,” He hisses, futilely snapping his fingers a few more times before sitting back on his haunches with a worried expression. “I’m sorry. I panicked, and now you’re. . .”

You force your mouth to close and slap your own cheeks. Your ear wasn't torn off, at least, so there’s a silver lining, though you can feel a small chunk of it missing. Azuma watches dumbfounded as you shake your head vigorously with a few more slaps for good measure. “‘M fine. Thank—“ You almost bite your tongue to stop yourself from saying the words. You should thank him, really, considering he just saved your life, but your pride is almost more important to you than that. “Whatever. Maybe it’ll go away.” 

“That’s. . .if you say so, I suppose.” He sighs, turning his head towards the sky. “Do you. . .want to keep moving?”

“It’ll be dark by the time we get t’ Vernon. Too dangerous.” The effort it takes to unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth even just to speak is immense. 

“Right, you don’t travel in the dark.” He can probably tell you don't want to be touched, so he lets you plaster a bandage over your ear by yourself with a worried look. 

“That’s how I’ve stayed alive this long,” You slough off your backpack and empty out your haul onto the floor. “No thanks to you.”

“I’m really sorry, [L/N].” He looks pretty sincere as he bows his head in shame. “If there’s anything I can do—“

“Stop it.” You toss an ancient-looking package of Little Debbie’s at his head. “I don’t wanna hear apologies. I don’t apologize for anything, so you shouldn’t either. It’s fuckin’ annoying.” You take his silence as agreement. “You wanted to help me, yeah?”

“What do you need?”

“I need you to cover my left side from now on.” 

“Alright.” He crawls over to sit next to you and instinctively you scoot further away.

“I didn’t mean right now,” You grumble. 

“Here’s your things back.” He ignores your griping and hands you your radio. You accept it almost sheepishly, kicking yourself over forgetting it so fast, and he watches as you put it in your bag with great care. “May I ask what the significance of that is?”

“You may fuckin’ not.” You snap, digging in to your own pastries with renewed hunger. You force yourself to ration some food and water for the road tomorrow, even though all you want to do right now is eat until you can’t move. “Ask me shit like that again and I’m leaving your ass here for real.” 

“I won’t let you do that.” He declares, looking at you like some sort of stern superior scolding a rulebreaker. “You're deaf in one ear because of me."

"I can get on just fine with one ear."

"No!" Without warning he reaches out, grabbing your wrist with an insistent grip. You wrench your arm away with a grunt and scoot away even further, hoping your glare is hot enough to burn. "It's suicide to do that on your own." 

"Don't touch me." He puts his hands down by his sides. He's emoting the most he ever has since you met, even when he was injured, brows pulled into a concerned scowl that makes you feel even worse. 

"I'm sorry. I just don't want you to die."

"Why d'you care?” You spit, more harsh than you meant it to be. “We only met yesterday."

"Is it wrong to not want someone to get hurt?" 

How long has it been since anyone's said something that soft to you? You don't have anything good to say in response, so you just shove more food in your face. The sky is darkening fast now, far too quickly for you to make a stubborn exit. Your ass is cold, you can't fucking hear properly, and now—

Now there's hot tears streaming over your cheeks for no goddamn reason, and if you could see anything right now you'd notice Azuma looking at you like he's got no fucking idea what to do. It's not like you know either. You turn away and wipe your eyes with your sleeve, but the tears just keep coming, and you force yourself not to make any noise. 

"Are you alright?" He asks, brow furrowing in concern. "What's wrong? Are you hurt somewhere else?" 

You hold up a shivering hand. You're confused, upset with yourself, upset with him for probably deafening you and for saving your life, for— for whatever reason, and the last thing you need is for him to come closer and try to comfort you.

"Don't." Thankfully your voice isn't trembling. Your hands are, though, so you pull them into your sleeves. "Just— just shut up." A deep breath shudders through your lungs. "Please."

"Um. Okay. Tell me— tell me if you need something." You close your eyes and lie back, hoping that the biting cold of the concrete roof will calm you down somewhat. Instead it just leaches even more energy from your tired bones, and you'd be asleep by now if it wasn't so damn cold. 

You roll onto your left side and curl into yourself, pushing your backpack up as a makeshift pillow. It's definitely not a good idea — safe, but certainly not comfortable or good for your back — but you've resigned yourself to having to sleep on the roof, and if Azuma has any other suggestions, he doesn't say anything about it. He leaves you alone, in fact, just like you wanted. He's sat near the edge of the roof — not that you're paying attention — keeping watch over the empty space below. You're too deep in the grip of exhaustion to try and rouse yourself now, so you decide to let him take the first watch, and within minutes you're out like a light.

Again you wake around dawn, the moment right where the light of the sun is beginning to filter through the deep grey clouds. When you sit up, disoriented and stiff, the first thing you notice is the warm jacket draped over your torso like a blanket. 

\------

"That's it right there," You call, yanking your bloodied machete out of the runner's head. The next one follows up in a split second, but Azuma takes care of it first, kicking it over the turnpike with a bullet to the brain. 

"I think that's the last of the infected." You wipe off the blade on the dead one's shirt before taking a moment to breathe. "This is our exit?"

You nod. "That's the Trans-Canada. Could take it all the way to Newfoundland if we wanted." 

"I see."

"You say you're from Border, but you're actin' like you've never seen any of this shit before." You take a swig from your water bottle and lead the way towards the shining frost-encrusted ribbon of concrete. 

"I thought there was a moratorium on personal questions," His voice is so deadpan that you wouldn’t know he was making a joke if he didn’t have the remnants of a smile on his lips. You grumble uselessly and jerk your thumb to the left.

"Yeah, for you." He follows your signal and sticks to your left side. It's annoying having to rely on Azuma for help, but dying because you missed some sort of audio cue would be much worse than any embarrassment you feel now, no matter how it hurts your pride. 

"Oh, alright," He chuckles. "You know what, I still feel bad, so I'll tell you whatever you want."

"Where the fuck're you from, then?"

"Why don't you guess?" You shoot him a look. He's calm as ever. A little smug, maybe, but at least now you've got something to occupy yourself with for the next. . .however many days until you get to Medicine Hat. 

"Alright, bud, here's a question. How'd you pronounce the word T-o-r-o-n-t-o?" 

"Er, Toron-to."

"Okay, you're from the States."

"What are you talking about?" He laughs, and his voice is pretty nice when you're not pissed off at every word coming from his mouth. 

"It's the way you say it. 'Toron-to'," You try to imitate him, but it comes off more like a creaky growl, and he laughs again at your scrunched up face. "If you were from ‘round here, you'd say it like 'Torono'."

"I've never heard that before." 

"Yeah, well, y'learn something new every day."

He chuckles and shakes his head. "You're right. I'm from Salem."

"What, like the witch town?"

"Something like that." 

"How the hell'd you end up with Border from all the way down there?" He hums in response. 

"I've got some things I'd like to keep private too." He notices you clam up and gives a reassuring smile that you promptly ignore. "Don't worry about it."

"I'm not worried," You snap, ever-so-slightly speeding up as you break onto the main highway. "I know when to shut up, unlike some people." That seems to get through to him, and he stops talking immediately. And instantly the conversation dissolves into thin air. 

You almost start to feel bad, but there's no reason to be — you're the one who said 'no apologies', right? 

And yet, after a stretch of thirty seconds that feels like eternity, you decide to offer one.

"Sorry." You mumble, so quiet he almost doesn't hear. If it weren’t for the vibration of your own vocal chords, you wouldn’t have heard it either.

"What?" 

"'M not saying it again." 

"I thought—“

"I'm trying to be nice," You hiss through clenched teeth. 

". . .thank you." You grunt in response and keep walking. 

The Trans-Canada is in a similar state to every other highway you've crossed so far, like a winding graveyard of vehicles as far as the eye can see. It's less densely packed once you're out of the city and on the open road, but you still have to wade through both cars and infected at a regular pace. 

Azuma is surprisingly good at picking up your slack. The infected don't even get the chance to take a swing at you before he caps them. The world within your ironsights is your territory, everything else is his, and the two of you make an alright go of it for a couple days until you reach Salmon Arm. Until you reach the barricade.

The barricade?

"What is that?" Azuma calls, pointing ahead to a hulking grey wall stretched across the highway between buildings like a net between goalposts. It’s too far away to see very clearly, but it’s gotta be a few metres high, you guess, and upon closer inspection it seems to loop around the whole town from the forest to the lake. 

"Dunno," You reply, pulling back the bolt on your still-warm rifle. "I've been up an' down this country twice. That thing is new."

"That's a bit concerning.”

“Yeah, no shit, Azuma.” 

“You only use my name when you insult me,” He sighs, shaking his head dramatically. 

"Names're special. You shouldn't use 'em unless you've got something important to say." 

"And insulting me is important?"

You click your tongue. "Now you’re gettin’ it.” You cock your head to the side and motion for him to follow, yanking open the hatch of a utility van and taking a seat in the trunk. “Here’s the deal. I have no fuckin’ idea what’s up with that wall, but there’s no avoidin’ it. Looks like it runs all the way around. Up near the mountain, too.”

“You’ve got a plan already?” He chuckles, taking the quiet moment to remove his gloves and flex his lithe fingers. 

“Whoever’s inside that thing has gotta be armed and dangerous. Probably got a lot of people in there too, which means a lot of weapons.”

“You don’t want to attack them, do you?”

“I’m not that stupid,” You bark, trying to massage some warmth into the tips of your ears. There’s still nothing to be heard from the left side. Luckily it hasn’t affected your ability to shoot, but your balance is definitely off, and multiple instances of having to be caught in a fall by Azuma has done nothing good for your pride. “We’re gonna march up to that gate and ask to pass through to the other side.” 

“Makes sense.” Azuma kneels down for a moment to refill his clip. The lack of weaponry on his part is starting to weigh you down too. There’s not much to be found in the way of handgun supplies from before the outbreak, especially considering Canada apparently only allowed the sale of firearms for hunting, or so you’ve been told. Eventually you’d have to ration his bullets the same way you ration food. 

“And I was thinkin’ we could trade with ‘em too. Get you a proper rifle. Maybe even some horses, if they have ‘em.” 

“It’d be nice if that was the case,” He holsters his pistol and crosses his arms over his chest. “But what if they’re hostile?” 

“We take the backup plan and go around.” 

“And if we can’t take the backup plan?”

“The backup-backup plan. We fuck ‘em up.” 

". . .right."

The people on the wall notice you approaching and make way for a rather tall man with what looks like a machine gun to approach the edge. You lift a hand to wave to them, maybe show you're not a threat, but when you're within a few steps of the wall he clears his throat and hollers down at you so loudly you think he might attract infected from kilometres around.

“ARRÊTE! STOP!” He orders, laying a hand on the trigger of his gun. Not overtly threatening, just proving he's prepared to use it, and the other guards follow his lead. The fact they haven't shot you yet means they're not afraid of you, a thought both relieving and concerning. If they're not afraid, they must be confident in their ability to fuck you up if they need to. “Déclarer vos affaires! MAINTENANT!”

“Uh— D'accord! D’accord!” You splutter, lifting your other hand up in a show of surrender and letting your rifle hang down at your side. You have to crane your neck just to look at him, and he looks like he could tip over the edge at any moment. “We’re just passing through! We want to cross through this town and trade for supplies with your people.” 

The man scrutinizes you for a moment with a look of contempt. Hopefully the bloody bandage covering your ear is garnering you a bit of sympathy, but if your roles were reversed, you know you wouldn't give any yourself. The four other guards watch you closely as the man turns to speak into what looks like a walkie talkie. 

“You speak French?” Azuma mutters, keeping his eyes on the patrollers. They're not being actively hostile to you; none of them have so much as raised the barrel of their gun, but a short, pale man on the far side is scowling at you so viciously he looks like an attack dog. 

“What, you don't?” He hums a little bit, sounding rather impressed, and a triumphant smirk crosses your lips for a split second before the head guard turns back to leer at you over the wall. 

"You need a translator?" He calls, no longer handling his gun like he means to use it. 

"No, I can translate for the both of us," You put your hands down as you reply and slowly holster your rifle. Azuma does the same, and you both make sure to keep your hands visible the whole time. It reminds you of Azuma when you met, how he acted like he was trying to placate a rabid animal, and the thought makes you chuckle a bit. 

The guard speaks into his walkie-talkie again and gestures towards someone on the other side of the wall. There's an uncomfortable feeling of vulnerability seeping into your skin. Before you can get too deep within your own thoughts, though, the gate opens just a crack, and a tan, muscled woman with a long salt-and-pepper braid emerges. 

"Hello!" She calls, striding towards you with open arms. "Welcome!"

_"_ She's the guide. She takes you to the doctor, get food, and out on the other side of town.” He then makes a show of shifting his gun in his arms. _"_ You watch yourself. Don't make trouble."

"Marcel, stop trying to scare them!" The woman scolds, and as she turns you notice she's strapped as well, holster peeking out from beneath the hem of her jacket. The man clams up and disappears over the top of the wall like a child scolded by his grandmother. "I'm sorry about him. He's very overprotective." 

You translate for Azuma and he laughs, giving the woman a warm smile. "It's not a problem. Thank you for letting us in, ma'am." 

You're already tired of the back-and-forth, but this woman seems too damn nice for even you to be curt with her, so you just try and make your expression as friendly as possible. 

"My name is Fleury,” She says, gesturing for the two of you to follow her inside. “Those kids up on the wall are very sweet, but they like to intimidate folks who come through. They think making people scared puts them on their best behaviour.”

“Can’t say I’d act any different.” She leads you through several smaller checkpoints, past more armed guards, some with easy smiles and others with cold glares. The main road through town almost looks like a street market with people milling about, and though they part around the three of you like the Red Sea you still find yourself reminded of home. 

"You look like you need to be checked out, chèrie," Fleury calls over her shoulder as she waves to some shopkeepers. "Why is there a bandage over your ear?" 

You don't bother to translate that part to Azuma. "Euh, someone shot me in the ear, and now I can't hear anything on that side." You glance sideways at Azuma. He gives you a quizzical look, like he wants to ask what you're talking about, but he keeps his mouth shut. Fleury's eyes widen and she picks up the pace, leading you down a side street to what looks like an office complex. 

She practically bursts through the front doors, startling a goggle-wearing young man out of his nap on a bench, and he unceremoniously falls to the floor with a thump. 

"Fleury! What— who are they?" 

"Is Dr. André here?" 

"Uh, yeah, she's in the back," He stammers, adjusting his rumpled jacket. "Wait, Fleury, you have to check in--"

"Tais-toi! It's urgent!" You and Azuma follow her through a set of swinging doors into a maze of cubicles arranged like hospital rooms. Faintly you realize Azuma’s still sticking to your left side, and you almost feel comforted by it, even though you haven’t really let your guard down around him. There’s not a soul to be seen in any of the beds, and you haven’t decided if it’s a good or a bad thing yet when you hear a rather soft voice call out from the back end of the ward.

“Fleury? Is that you, darling?” A tall, lithe woman appears from behind a cubicle wall with a serene expression, and she stops short when she sees the two of you in tow. “Fleury, who are these people?”

“Outsiders. It’s not important. This girl says she’s lost her hearing,” The woman’s face lights with shock and she immediately turns towards an examination table tucked against the wall. 

“It’s not that bad,” You say, trying to laugh it off. “It’s just the one side—“

“[L/N], what’s going on?” Azuma puts a hand on your shoulder as the doctor arranges her supplies for— for whatever it is she’s doing. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Sit down on the table, please,” The doctor says, more of a demand than a request, and begrudgingly you comply. “Which side?”

“Left.” She turns your head to the side and removes the bandages. 

“What happened?”

“Gunshot.” 

She sighs through her nose and looks inside your ear with an otoscope, apparently not happy with what she’s seeing, and starts bombarding you with questions. 

Can you hear people come up behind you? Can you hear when I ring this tuning fork next to your head? Can you hear, can you hear, can you hear?

. . .no, you can’t. 

Azuma watches you with a solemn expression. He looks conflicted, confused by the unfamiliar words, unsure of what to do with himself as this stranger desperately tries to get a foothold on your situation. But eventually, the doctor pulls back, lips pursed and eyes full of pity, telling you that she’s so, so sorry, but your hearing in that ear is gone for good. 

“I’m. . .what?” You’re stiff as a board but your head is reeling, gloved fingers digging into your palms for some way to ground yourself in this reality. Your hands come up to brush over your ears. 

“What did she say?” Azuma looks between all three of you frantically. “Fleury! What’s going on?” 

She turns to him with a sad look and pats him on the back. “Girl is—“ She points to her ear, apparently unable to find the right word. “No more. Done.”

“There’s nothing you can do?” You gulp, trying to stand but uneasy in your own body. “What about my other one? I thought if I had just one everything would be fine!” 

“It might be,” She says, infuriatingly soothing. “I’m so sorry, miss. There’s nothing I can do at this point.”

“Azuma,” Your voice is so icy it kind of scares you when you speak. You slide off the examination table. “We’re leaving.” 

“Wait, let me at least give you some supplies,” Fleury protests, wedging herself between you and the exit. Her face is creased in concern.

You stare at her for a long moment before speaking again. “Some food. And a rifle, for him.” 

———

You get out of Salmon Arm as fast as you possibly can. Never before have you been so pissed at the hospitality of others, at how all anyone wants is to have a nice chat with a kind stranger, unaware you’re suffocating in your own mind with every passing second. You’re deposited outside the gate on the other side of town with a couple weeks worth of food and a rifle for Azuma in the early afternoon. They didn’t have any horses to spare, Fleury said, though you didn’t have the mind to be disappointed when all you could think about was getting out. It’s probably the first time in your life you’ve actually felt safer in the open than in a settlement.

Azuma rounds on you the second you’re out of earshot of the guards on the east wall. “Are you alright?” A stupid question. 

“I’m fine.”

“You are most certainly not.”

“Just shut up,” You growl, shifting your backpack higher on your shoulders. “Nothin’ to be done about it now.”

“[L/N].” You can’t hear his footsteps come to a stop. It’s too soft a sound, even for your ‘good’ ear. But you can feel his hand on your forearm, silently asking you to wait, and reluctantly you do without turning around. 

“What?” 

“I’m sorry,” You’re frozen in place as his arms come up around your shoulders; either too shocked or enraged at the action to do anything but stand stock still, you can’t decide. He’s leaning towards your right ear, that much you can feel, but this. . .embrace he’s got you in seems more of a comfort for himself than for you. “I’m so, so sorry.” 

You're generous, and let him squeeze you for another moment before reaching up to peel his arms away. “I told you to stop apologizing.” You still haven’t looked at him. 

“Then. . .then I’ll promise you something instead.” Lightly he pulls on your shoulder and you turn, staring up into his tired eyes with a feeling of utter blankness in your head. “I’m going to get you home safe and sound. I promise I’ll protect you. I swear.” You take a deep, shuddering breath through your nose and turn away again to hide your face. 

“. . .do what you want.” You mutter, quietly enough that you can only really tell you’ve spoken from the rumble of your throat. “Let’s just get to Banff before the first snow comes.” 

Secretly, oh-so-secretly, you’re glad he’s here. That he’s going to stay with you. Even though he’s the reason you’ve lost this part of yourself. But he’s also the reason you’re alive, too, isn’t he? The reason you’re not being picked apart by infected or carrion birds in the shadows of some gas station in the middle of Buttfuck Nowhere, British Columbia. 

No, you’d never tell him that. Least of all that, ever so slowly, you’re starting to want to protect him too. 

**Author's Note:**

> in my mind i'm imagining that post-apocalypse, indigenous peoples reclaim unceded land all across the country. a gal can dream i suppose. salmon arm has a decent sized population of Métis people in the present day as far as i remember, so that's why i chose to have the settlement be french-speaking. 
> 
> anyway, lmk if you read and liked this. i'm gonna post the rest either way though lmao


End file.
